A Place of Healing
by White Phantom
Summary: A Wilds' apostate finds her place.
1. A Place of Healing

_A/N: This is a really some backstory for my witch!inquisitor._

...-...

A quiet stillness settled over the clearing as she quietly crept out of hiding. This is how it always was. No matter who the players were, whenever paths crossed, there was a moment where the world would stop as it figured out whether or not there was a trespasser in its Wilds.

When there was one, things would fall apart. Templars would chase, native beasts would devour, frightened mages would leave swaths of destruction in their wake as they tried to make sure they were the victorious party in the unfortunate encounter.

That was what happened to trespassers here. They met fates full of blood and pain and fear.

However, the Wilds knew its own, and to those it embraced, they found so much more.

Donovan said she was foolish for this sort of thing, but she knew better. He was a grouchy old elf who'd long since given up having a welcoming place in the world. Instead, he rejected everything before it could reject him.

Well, he tried to, anyway. He chased off other mages who sought a friend, led templars on chases that ended with cliffs and wicked beasts, and frightened any Chasind who dared draw too close to his hovel.

Even so, whenever the storms got too heavy, the winds too cold, he'd find her and grumpily tell her she could stay the night—so long as she could manage not to be a pest.

They'd sit in silence until he would grudgingly draw from his food stocks and toss something at her, muttering that she was too scrawny, or he'd sit her down beside his fire and mend a cut she hadn't thought dire enough to waste her own magic on, all the while fussing that he didn't know why he bothered when she'd likely be dead before she was twelve, anyway. She'd told him once that she thought she was already older than twelve, but he'd just pointed out that she didn't know how old she was and could barely keep track of day and night, let alone years.

She'd had to give him that.

It was an odd sort of ritual when they were together. If he was content that she wasn't starving nor in need of medical assistance, he'd punctuate the quiet evenings with stories about back when he was a Circle mage or about how stupid the other 'witches' had been lately, drawing templar attention to their corner of the Wilds. Those stories usually ended with something along the lines of, "If they can't keep their antics to themselves, I'll give them a real witch."

On the occasions that she was there in the morning when he woke up, he'd always shoo her away, muttering that it was ill luck for too many mages to congregate. When she left, he'd tell her he expected she'd probably be eaten by a bear before their paths crossed again.

The other mages who stumbled through always spoke ill of him, of the way he foretold their horrid demises and refused them help, vowing that he wouldn't be brought down with them.

Really, though, he'd been hurt too many times, and the cuts were too deep. Those were stories he never told, though sometimes she could see them replaying in his eyes. After so long, they still stung too sharply to voice.

She could understand that. She had her own cuts that ran just as deep. Sometimes they were echoes of injuries made by swords, phantom pains that woke her up at night. Other times they were words slung with either hate or fear.

Blood mage, malificar, abomination, demon spawn.

Donovan had never uttered such a slur her way, though. Oaf, fool, moron maybe. But never the words that really hurt.

She wasn't sure he remembered the nicer names people called each other anymore. She'd mentioned it once after he'd called her an idiot, and he'd grumbled that the reason he was in the Wilds was so he didn't have to say nice things if he didn't mean them.

He hadn't called her an idiot since.

Indeed, there were hurts that ran deep in every one of the apostates who'd fled to the Wilds.

However, even though they brought their hurts with them, the Wilds took them in and in its own way, made them whole again. Even with the fear of templar incursions, there was more peace here than not.

Sometimes the templars pushed through, hunting for mages to drag back to their nightmarish world, but the Wilds took care of that, too. It looked after its own, and dealt with the trespassers, leading them to grisly fates or just getting them so lost that they were lucky to find their way home.

This place did so much for its own, and that was why she went out of her way to do this, even if Donovan tried to convince her she was a fool every chance he got.

Her Wilds had accepted her when any other place would have snuffed out her life, and she was compelled to give back, to be part of it.

That was why she'd decided that she would heal it the way it had healed her. She would tend to the scrapes and scabs, and even if they couldn't go away completely, she would help make them bearable.

That's why she sought out those who hurt, like her.

And that was why she was in that small clearing, thankfully unbeknownst to her elven guardian.

When the wyvern didn't immediately charge at her or off into the brush, she crept forward slowly, pausing whenever the beast's head would tilt one way or the other. After a few feet, it mirrored her caution, taking a few halting steps toward her.

It stopped.

Its leg was hurt, twisted at an awkward angle.

She'd tried talking to the creatures before, but her voice tended to just frighten them. It made them mistake her for something that didn't belong to their world and made them flee. However, she'd been listening to them at night, to the way their growls rose and fell, the way they punctuated their communication.

She spoke softly, letting her cadence follow the strange patterns, and was pleased when the beast only pranced nervously in place, not finding her oddness worrisome enough to try to run on its injured leg.

When she was close enough that it could easily lash out and sink its teeth into her, she dropped down to sit cross-legged, staring expectantly at the creature.

After a prolonged moment, it let out a huff and slumped down onto the side that didn't have the hurt leg, curling slightly around its injury and watching her with intelligent eyes.

They waited one another out for another short while before she finally reached into her magic and felt that familiar, warm curl of life. Drawing on it, she focused on the beast. Slowly, she held her hands out. It leaned forward and sniffed at her, before finally snorting and settling down, tension still strung through its body.

Moving closer, she settled down beside the wyvern and began to speak in that same, broken pattern that she always heard them growling in. The creature didn't seem to care, instead letting its gaze wander as she focused her magic on healing its leg.

She felt the wrongness smooth out of the creature's body—it was hard to describe how it felt when bodies responded to magic, but she'd decided a smooth feel was typically what happened when the magic was no longer really needed.

As soon as she cut off her spell, the wyvern let out a sharp, curious growl. Before she could turn her head toward it, its nose was in her hair, snuffling dutifully, no doubt trying to figure out just what she was and why she'd healed it so.

When it was done, it settled back, head cocked as it appraised her.

And then, it simply rolled over, stretching out in the sunlight to let its stomach get some much needed warmth.

As it closed its eyes, she tossed herself backwards into the grass too, staring up at the sky and enjoying the simply peace that washed over her.

The Wilds was a place of healing, and despite what Donovan fretted over, it had accepted her as a part of that.

...-...

 _A/N: Thank you for reading! If you'd like to see more of her adventures, please feel free to head over to Andraste's Witch._


	2. Scars

_A/N: More of Finley's time in the Wilds before she was Finley. Since the next chapter of AW is coming along slowly, I thought I'd go ahead and post this._

...-...

Donovan's long, pointed ears twitched as one of his wards went off. He was busy weeding his garden, with his staff resting back beside his chair in his home, but that was fine. He could handle a single trespasser or two.

With a swift glance over his shoulder, already prepared to send whoever was trespassing in his property into the void, his gaze swept his quiet little corner of the Wilds.

However, rather than templars or blood mages—that seemed to be just about all that came through this place of late—he was greeted with a pair of Fade-stained eyes peeking out through a mop of wild, tangled orange hair. He let his mana dissipate.

Letting out a huff, he went back to weeding. "I see the bears didn't eat you yet."

"Bears don't eat a lot of people," the girl offered, quite sure of herself. Her voice was a little scratchy, but still light. "You have to make them angry. Or scared."

"They only attack if they're angry or scared?" When she nodded, he let out one, humorless chuckle. "So that's what's under templar armor. Bears."

A giggle met his stupid comment.

He didn't have to look back to know she hadn't come into his garden yet. She wouldn't unless he invited her in.

Nameless, he called her on occasion, when he felt the need to give her one. He'd never called her that to her face, though. He'd made a deal, years ago, that if he was speaking, it would likely be to her, and no names were needed. Part of him had assumed that if she lived long enough, she'd get over her aversion to names. However, she'd been around seven when they'd made that deal, and now, at what had to be about twelve, she remained unchanged in that belief.

It was an odd sort of deal, but he never went back on his word, annoying as it was.

Rocking back to stand up—he was too young to have knee problems, yet his joints didn't seem to care about age—he trotted over to an old tree stump beside his garden and motioned the girl over to him. It had been over four months since he'd seen her last, and after searching for her for a month, he'd resigned himself to the fact that she'd likely met a rather dismal end out here in the Wilds. It really wasn't a place for a child, but then, where else could she go? "Let me get a look at you, then."

When she trotted over, careful not to step on any of his plants, he tilted his head. Her hair was getting longer, not that she was taking care of it. It was so tangled he suspected it was likely a few inches longer than it looked, and leaves and twigs poked out of her hair as though she had a little tree growing on her head. Her skin was well tanned, with uncountable amounts of freckles dotting every piece of skin that wasn't covered—and there were plenty of holes in her clothes for freckles to peak through. He'd have to make her something new…he had an old robe that could work, though that'd likely wear out for her too quickly, as he'd stopped wearing it for that very reason.

Perhaps he could use some of his plants to trade the local Avvar…

He could try, and fall back on the robe if he needed to. Winter would be upon them in another month, and her arms were bare in what she was wearing now and… His mind blanked mid-calculation of how many blackberries and apples he might have to trade for a decent swatch of cloth.

"Your scars are gone."

That seemed to be what she'd been waiting for him to notice. She beamed, holding her stick-like arms out in front of her as she swelled with pride. "I thought…maybe people won't confuse me for a blood mage if I don't have any." She held them up for another moment before letting them swing to her sides. Then she was fidgeting, playing with her hair, making it more of a rat's nest than it already was. She hated having her hair brushed, but he'd have to find some way to bargain for her to sit down for a little while so it could be tended to. She was still talking, using her hands to make vague motions as though they somehow emphasized her point. "It was hard at first, but after I got the hang of it, it was pretty easy, and I think I got them all," at that, she twisted her arms around a little to show off the backs of them and the places she couldn't easily reach, "so it's a little bit like they never happened."

His gaze dimmed as he stared at her smooth, freckled skin. He didn't know the full story—likely would never know it—but someone had cut the poor child up when she was smaller.

That anyone could hurt a child like that…

The scars had been too many to count, all up and down her forearms. And the closest he could figure was that it had been a blood mage's doing. Namely, he guessed that because of the child's complete and utter revulsion to anything blood or demon related.

While Donovan didn't care for blood magic, he'd entertained the possibility of its uses on occasion, musing over how he might need it were he not so isolated himself. His little nameless one wouldn't do so. If she knew he'd even thought such a thing, she'd likely never come by to see him again. And then he'd never know if she was dead or miraculously managing to survive through one of the most inhospitable places in Thedas.

Well, aside from the Circles.

Maybe it would be better if she didn't come by anymore. He couldn't afford to trade for cloth or…

His heart didn't need this caring rubbish. That's how idiots got caught by the templars; they cared. And at the rate she made him worry, his heart would likely give out before his knees. He'd be an easy catch for the templars the next time they swept through.

He paused when he realized she was watching him, the hopeful look in her eyes dimming with each second he didn't respond to her reasoning.

What did she want of him? For him to tell her that without her scars the templars would never raise a blade at her? That no magicless prat would ever be wary of her?

That sort of thing didn't matter to the masses. It was the magic in her veins that mattered, and it was the magic in her that would keep people coming after her, keep them hurting her.

He opened his mouth to say thus, to explain to her just how harsh and uncaring the world really was, but her eyes were so damned hopeful.

"I suppose it's a start." She perked up again, like she might start prattling off about some cockamamie plan to 'fit in' with the magicless masses beyond their woods. He fixed her with a critical glare. "Now, I don't want you running up to templars to test this theory of yours, you hear? With your abysmal luck, you'll likely find the one who'd attack a tree for rattling its leaves."

Her smile slipped a little, but she nodded, whatever she was going to say sticking to her tongue and staying there.

Sometimes he wondered if she really followed his instructions as well as she seemed to listen to them.

He'd had one apprentice when he'd been in the Circle, and after they'd been slain during an attempt to flee, he hadn't been able to take on another. He couldn't stand to get attached to someone like that, just to watch them die.

And so when it had become too much—when a friend had gone missing after their Harrowing—Donovan had taken it upon himself to get out. He'd figured he'd be dead by the end of the week when he'd run, and that either way—freedom or death—it wouldn't hurt as much as staying in a place that reminded him of how foolish it was to care for others.

That had been almost fifteen years ago.

For ten years, he hadn't cared for anyone or thing. For ten years he'd evaded the templars and built a quietly, lonely life for himself. And it had been worth it. Being so utterly alone had been worth it, if he got to wake up in a home he'd built himself, tend to the garden he'd planted himself, to just be his own man.

And then this little idiot had wandered her way through his garden and…and she listened to his stories and the morals of them—skewed as some were from his personal bias—and acted like he was honestly a good person.

Granted, the girl went running around with wyvern and giant spiders, so her judgment was appalling at best, but…

Creators, he didn't want her to die out here.

"I suppose if you help me with a bit of weeding, I can show you a glamor for your eyes."

At that, she blinked, following him along the edge of the garden and then stopping next to the plants he knelt beside. "A glamor?"

"It'll make your eyes whatever color you want," he started and then hesitated. "Now, a good templar will be able to tell there's a spell on you, and they'll probably dispel it. So no casting it on yourself and then wandering over to them to play the innocent little girl. Just…they might not come after you as adamantly if they see you with, say, _brown_ eyes…from a distance."

He almost repeated that part. Any templars this far into nowhere weren't interested in bringing mages back to the Circles. She still told stories about the 'nice' templars who had taken care of her for a little while when she was younger, and he always worried that she might try to go back to those armored bastards, even after five years of having to run from them. She didn't seem to understand that those monsters would mistake her for one.

Or maybe she did understand that.

After all, it had been five years, and she was still around.

Maybe she just _wanted_ them to be good.

Maybe a few of them were.

Pity he'd never met them.

"Come on, then. I don't have to remind you that deals have to be upheld on both ends, do I?" He motioned to his garden. "No one gets something for nothing."

She nodded quickly, walking over, dropping to her knees and watching attentively as he went back to his weeding. Before he could reiterate that the deal required her to actually do work, he felt a strange tingling sensation in his knees and then…

They didn't hurt.

His gaze snapped toward her. That damned hopeful look was back. "It's better?"

They stared at one another for a prolonged, stretched moment.

With a short nod, he went back to weeding. "Who taught you that one?"

"I made it up."

"You made up a spell for arthritis?" Donovan scoffed, moving over a little to reach a different part of his garden and finding himself surprised that no pains shot through him as he did so. "Didn't know a little one like you could get achey joints."

"I didn't want the templars to catch you," she whispered.

When Donovan's gaze snapped back toward her, her attention was on her task at hand. Awkwardly, he reached out to pat her head and then opted to pat her shoulder instead. If he'd touched her head, he likely would have sent one of those twigs poking into her scalp.

"You're a good sort."

She looked up, beaming. "You, too."

With a scoff, he turned his glare back to his garden. "Enough of that, then. We've a garden to tend to."


	3. Jerks

**"P** eople are jerks!" She kicked at the ground, little fists balled up at her sides as she glared at the grassy earth.

Donovan sat back on the rock he'd perched upon, staring down at the little redheaded human. He would have assumed that she knew this fact quite well, seeing as she was a mage child who'd been forced to flee the templars' reach and cruelty. The fact that she lived in these wild lands should have been proof enough, yet here she was, declaring such a thing as though it were some great revelation.

Donovan stared down at her nonplussed. "Yes, well. The sooner you learn that, the better." He paused before adding, "And if you cross paths with anyone out here who seems outright friendly, they're probably one of the worst. Never trust an unsolicited smile."

Normally, she would argue with him that some people weren't so bad. She'd tell him stories of nice people she'd known, who were somehow no longer around to protect her, yet were still completely good and just and heroic.

It made him want to gag, namely because the people she idolized so were the very templars that would just as soon put a sword through her as look at her.

Today, though, there was no argument, no valiant defense of kindness in hearts.

Leaning forward a little, he realized that tears were brimming on her lashes and she looked like she was biting her lip to keep from crying.

His brow pinched together. "What's happened, then?"

It took some coaxing, and a few minutes for her to gather herself enough so that she didn't start sobbing the second she opened her mouth, but when she had finally collected herself, she dipped her head, ashamed. "They stole my book."

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

He'd seen that damned book a few times—it was hard not to when she carted it everywhere. As much as he liked to believe that he was free of attachment, he still had an amulet that his father had given to him just before he'd been dragged off to the Circle.

Not that he'd tell anyone, but on more than one occasion, he'd gone back to risk templars' wraths because he realized he'd left it behind or lost it.

Everyone had something important to them, some little thing that simply having to hold made things better.

For this little one, it was that stupid book. It was a children's story book, made especially for her by her protectors who had stopped protecting her the second she came into her magic. The stories in it were adequate at best, and the drawings left much to be desired, but she adored it. The few times she'd stayed with him for a few days, he'd catch her flipping through it reverently, touching the pages, tracing the images with her scrawny fingers, and whispering the words to herself.

That stupid book was the reason she thought there were 'good' templars, and it made him want to hurl it in a fire.

She was better off without the damned thing, really.

And yet…

And yet he could imagine what he would do if someone took his necklace. Both trinkets were reminders of times when each of them had been safe and loved, protected. Both trinkets could bring them back to those moments, if only briefly.

Hopping down from his perch and muttering under his breath when his knees ached from the sudden movement, he reached out and put his hand on her head, shaking her head gently.

"Who took it?"

"What's it matter?"

"We're going to get it back," Donovan replied, a little annoyed. "You promised me next storm you'd read me one of those stories, remember? I'll not have you going back on your word because of some idiot."

For the first time today, she perked up a little. Reaching up to wind a lock of hair into impossible knots, she looked so damned hopeful. "Someone was calling him Marcus, I think? I ran away before they got there. Two against one is bad odds."

"That it is," Donovan nodded. "Now this Marcus, what do you know of him?"

"He said he needed the paper for his spells."

Brow arching, Donovan narrowed his eyes. "We're talking other mages?" When she nodded, he trotted over to his hovel and retrieved his staff, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. As he walked back out, he motioned around. "Lead the way, girl."

"What are you gonna do?"

Donovan couldn't help a brief, uncharacteristic smile, "If he doesn't give you back the book, I'm going to set him on fire." She looked a little worried at that, and he simply patted her head. "He'll give it back. I promise. Everyone listens to reason now and again, even if people are jerks."

She nodded, a bit of a bounce in her step as they started off to find the newcomers in their woods. "But not you."

With a scoff, Donovan shook his head. "You take that back. I'm the worst."


	4. Daring to Dream

_A/N: This takes place when Finley was about 17, before she became Finley._

...-...

"You could build a bridge."

She frowned toward the sky, not bothering to open her eyes or look at the person beside her.

"A bridge?" When she heard him hum a soft yes, she sighed. "And just how am I to do that?"

"Come now, we both know you're good at manipulating trees."

At that, she opened one eye and tilted her head just enough to peek over at the man lying in the grass beside her. His dark, shaggy hair fell away from his face, the light dancing across it, and he gave her a lopsided grin as his hand found hers and their fingers laced.

He was older than she was, by how much she couldn't say. She'd need to know her age to know that. But it didn't matter, really. He was a gentleman and easily the best thing to have ever happened to her.

They'd been heading south for a few months now after deciding that fleeing from templars wasn't something they particularly wanted to do for the rest of their lives. The theory was that if they went far enough into the Wilds, they would reach a point where templars never swept through.

It certainly felt like they were there now.

They hadn't encountered a templar for over three months, and she was quite certain that they wouldn't.

It was...odd.

To feel so safe, so secure.

Despite the usual cold, there were always a few decent hours midday, and they'd decided that rather than travel today, they would enjoy it.

It was easily the first time she'd ever felt so completely able to do so in her life. Further north, there was always that itching fear that something would happen and that if she let her guard down too long, she'd wind up on the end of something sharp.

Here, though, with Mathel…

They'd been talking about how good their luck was lately, and he'd said that surely this meant they were going to run into something unfortunate soon, like a chasm that they'd have to backtrack along to get across.

"You want me to kill a few trees to save us a few days' walk?"

"Would you have to kill them?"

"Twisting them into something they're not...tugging their roots loose…" She frowned and closed her eye again, settling back against the grass. "It would not end well for them." Even as he grumbled a protest, she shook her head. "And think. If we ever came back, I'd have to kill more trees."

"We won't ever come back, though." She heard him shift and dared a glance to see that he'd propped himself up on his side, looking down at her. There was excitement in his eyes, a promise of something she could really believe in.

Happily ever after.

It was such an odd notion. All the stories...they were always for farmers or heroes, wardens or 'd never heard one saying that mages could live happily ever after, yet here they were, free of the templars and free to be themselves, together.

And the promises.

Mathel was always promising her things. He would get her a long, flowy dress-not a robe-that she could twirl in, they would figure out what sort of birds could stand the cold and keep a few once they settled down, they would tell their own stories over a warm hearth, they would grow old together in the quiet recesses of the Wilds, free from all the things that haunted them both.

He said she would look beautiful with a few gray streaks in her hair-she'd teased he'd probably cause them all.

She hadn't told him yet, but she was looking forward to growing old with him, too. To seeing his hair turn salt and pepper, to watching those laugh lines around his eyes grow deeper.

To studying magic together and never worrying that the other might turn to blood.

"What if we used something else for a bridge?" His voice grew more enthusiastic as he added, "Or just made a living one!"

"I'll see you make one of those, first."

With a laugh, he tugged her closer to him, his willowy arms wrapping around her, all the protection she would ever need.

Life had been a little touch and go for a long time, but now, finally, things were exactly as they should be, and she had the Wilds to thank for that.


	5. The Blight

_A/N: Sad chapter._

...-...

The ruins they were in wouldn't hold out for long, and one of the genlocks had seen them retreat this way.

She curled herself closely against Mathel, not daring to look across the small room to where Marcus and Yeelha sat. Yeelha leaned her head back, only to jump as her broken horns scraped against the wall behind her.

They held their breath, praying it hadn't been noise enough to garner attention.

The world was deathly quiet as they sat there, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Just as she thought to creep up the wall and peer out to see what was going on—surely a higher vantage would keep her out of sight from most of their enemies' view—the sound of impossibly heavy feet thundering against the ground nearly made her lose her grip on the old elven stones. The door to the small chamber they'd hidden in fractured in the middle, its ages old stone not strong enough to withstand the onslaught. Hisses and cries began on the other side, as well as a roar that they'd come to learn well the last few weeks.

Ogres.

The other three didn't wait for her to get a view of the world outside, inside dragging themselves up the walls as well. Mathel and Marcus weren't as adept at climbing as she and Yeelha, and so they did what they could to help the others. Marcus nearly fell back, right as the door smashed open, an ogre roaring and swiping at them, barely taking the time to even see where they were.

Yeelha yanked Marcus up as he swore, a gash running down his leg.

Yeelha cast a quick heal and they took off running. Marcus kept the floor from giving out under them as the ogre took down the wall and the second floor that had been nearest began to collapse in.

An arrow whizzed past her shoulder, and she glanced back, paling to see the darkspawn already crawling their way up to where they were, wailing and hissing.

Rather than try to wind their way through the maze of halls and broken walls in the ruins, their lot darted out the first window they came to, making a jump between the small gap between the ruin and ground that had built up over the years, half burying the ruins themselves.

Skidding to a stop, she grabbed Marcus' staff as he stumbled past her and slammed it into the floor as hard as she could, whispering desperately.

The nearest trees came alive around them, roaring with their own bestial fury and stomping toward the half collapsed ruins.

With something between them and their pursuers, she turned back to hurry after, ducking as a fireball took out a shriek that seemed to materialize out of nowhere beside her.

The trees were screaming, tossing bodies left and right, and she winced at the violence.

Darkspawn weren't people. It was okay to fight them like this…

It had to be.

Mathel's hand caught hers and dragged her along, faster. She nearly dropped Marcus' staff, though she managed to keep a good grip.

Mathel was always telling her she needed her own staff, but Donovan had said that such things just made one a target for the templars all the more.

Now…now she wished she hadn't listened to Donovan. She could really use her own staff. Her magic wasn't half bad on its own, but she could probably set the damned forest on those miserable monsters if she was better acquainted with a staff.

Looking back, she saw her second tree falling to flame and shuddered.

"They would have fallen to the Blight anyway," Mathel whispered between breaths, urging her to keep up.

It wasn't fair.

They were supposed to be safe. The Wilds had accepted them and they lived their lives quietly, away from those who feared them, away from those who wanted to hurt them.

And now they were running north, back spell interrupts and angry mobs.

It wasn't…fair.

"Yeelha!" she called to their Qunari friend. The woman wheeled about, gaze meeting hers and then nodding quickly.

Mathel released her hand temporarily as both she and Yeelha held their staves and jerked up. Roots burst from the ground, skewering two more shrieks as they wove into a large, long wall.

Hopefully, that would keep them at bay for at least a little while.

Marcus used a burst of force energy to block another shriek that had gotten ahead of the root wall, and cursed as he darted back to her and reclaimed his staff.

They spent most of the night on the run, not daring to look back or rest for more than a few minutes. Warnings and calls for aid had already been sent, though they'd only heard back from one other mage.

Donovan.

He assured them that he was on his way, even if he was the only one coming.

Marcus had spat something less than grateful at the message, saying the old codger might as well just leave them to die, for all the good _one_ mage would do to change their fate, but he'd shut up at a glare from her.

Donovan was a good sort, and he was true to his word. That's why he so rarely gave it. If he was coming to help, then help he would, and it wouldn't matter if he was alone, he'd be enough.

After all, they were managing, weren't they?

They just needed to get ahead of the horde—or find a way to move out of its way.

When they came to a chasm, She and Yeelha made a bridge across it, again using tree roots. Before it was even finished, Marcus was racing across it, knowing it would hold and keep snaking forward before his feet hit air.

Mathel waited until they were done, again taking her hand as they three of them hurried across, with Marcus already on the other side, magic flickering around his fingertips as he looked for anything that would need to be stopped.

When they were almost to the far end of the bridge, he attacked the structure itself.

She and Yeelha withdrew their magic as Marcus and Mathel lit the thing up, tearing it apart.

As the remnants of the roots fell away into darkness, she couldn't help but wonder if this was the break they'd been hoping for. If they could push forward just a little more, they'd be out of range of any arrows and they could rest.

She needed to rest.

Her steps faltered a moment before she felt that reassuring palm against hers and looked up to see Mathel smile at her. He kissed the back of her hand quickly, an unspoken apology in his eyes, and then they were running again.

Dawn was just piercing the clouds overhead with a dismal light—the Blight strangled everything, from the earth to the heavens overhead—when they reached a dead end.

The cliff stretched up well over forty feet, jagged and miserable. Even as she and Yeelha looked for a good away up it, and arrow thudded into the rock near Marcus.

He let out a swear, bringing up a barrier as another nearly took out his eye.

The darkspawn had kept up—or were these ones different from the ones they'd been fleeing before? They came from the west, already running as though they had no concept of what fatigue was.

Her shoulders trembled. They wouldn't be able to climb with the ogres so close. Even if they got high enough that the beasts couldn't reach them, the arrows would. As lightning arced into Marcus, jumping and nearly hitting both her and Mathel—Mathel shielded them both before it could—she felt her heart sink.

An emissary.

Could this be worse?

The sounds of monsters coming from the way they'd run sounded, muffled by the trees.

With only one way to go, they fled east.

She conjured more tree protectors. Mathel made walls of fire. Marcus made the earth crumble beneath their enemies and Yeelha healed, and yet it was not…

No.

It would be enough.

They just…they just had to keep going.

A chasm cut through the cliff face they'd come to, heading north. Even as they reached it, another shriek came out of nowhere, tackling Yeelha from the sheer force of impact. She shielded herself a second too late, letting out a sharp gasp as claws dug into her skin.

Even as her friend cried, Marcus knocked the monster back and she skewered it with roots, reminding herself again that it was a monster, not a person. She helped Yeelha to her feet, lending her some of her magic to heal with. Though the Qunari was shaken, she seemed fine enough, and with little in the way of thought, they started down the chasm. It was small enough that the ogres would have trouble charging, and it would make for difficult the darkspawn to follow. They could leave traps and spells and make some real headway—

Something was running down the chasm toward them, ghoulish face twisted, blade held high.

No…

They couldn't keep going east. There was no way they could out run all of these creatures. They were already so tired and…

Mathel caught her around her waist and pulled her to him, kissing her so fiercely that she could have forgotten that they were running for their lives for a split second.

"I love you."

The wails and hisses didn't let her keep that moment.

An arrow whizzed past them as Mathel cupped her face in his hands, resting his forehead against hers.

"I made you a promise, remember?" he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he kissed her nose. "I'll keep you safe."

She stared at him, uncomprehending as he called for Marcus and nodded his head toward her, and then…

He let go and turned back toward the oncoming darkspawn.

She tried to follow him as he ran toward them, not understanding what was going on, but Marcus caught her around the waist, tugging her back.

Mathel was barely a few feet from her before a strange, guttural roar ripped free from him. As it sounded, his body twisted into something completely unrecognizable, flesh searing to flesh and bubbling out into a hulking form that conjured fire to fall from the sky, meeting an ogre head on and not even flinching.

Before she could truly realize what had happened, the world went dark.

…-…

She jerked upright, gasping as she sat up. A small fire crackled beside her, and at first she was confused. Then, relief flooded through her.

A dream.

It has been a dream.

Taking in a few shaky breaths, she looked around for Mathel, figuring that if he wasn't beside her, he must be on watch.

However, when she finally found the one keeping guard, her heart felt like it would stop beating.

Donovan sat near the edge of the fire, watching her. When she met his gaze, his expression wavered into something she didn't recognize.

Pity? Sorrow?

Loss.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet that they were nearly lost to the crackle of the flames beside her.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but snapped it shut as she looked around the camp again, determined to find Mathel.

It had been a dream…

Yeelha and Marcus lay huddled together, as though they'd fallen asleep while talking, but aside from them….

There was no one.

With a hiccupped sob, she felt as though something had gripped her insides and twisted, tearing and slicing and leaving an emptiness that stretched out further than was possible.

She didn't notice the other two wake up, or Yeelha come over and grip her in a tight hug as Donovan and Marcus kept their gazes low.

After all, nothing they could say or do would make a difference.

The Blight had already claimed the center of her world.


End file.
